


The King Has Come

by thewritinggoblin



Series: The Imbalance [1]
Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic-Users, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-30 16:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritinggoblin/pseuds/thewritinggoblin
Summary: Some time has passed, magic is trying to balance itself once more, and worlds are trying to rebuild themselves after a threat of darkness and old magic. Osaron is no longer a threat, and all seems well - Holland Vosijk is even alive. But at what cost? The cost of his magic, of course. But the woods of his home whisper of magic still, of a king he thought had long since passed.





	The King Has Come

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Just a heads up for you, the reader, that this is a VERY divergent story-line that I've been working on for a while! There ARE spoilers if you have not finished the Shades of Magic books, so please read at your own risk! This very first chapter alone is a HUGE spoiler!! I'm not the best at summaries, and there's a lot going on for this work in my head, so bear with me on this journey & enjoy!

_ There is no magic left in Holland Vosijk. _But still he comes to his forest to sit at the river’s edge. Still he makes a small incision, even on his most weary of days. And still he feeds the water drops of his not so precious blood.

He wraps his palm to stanch the flow and lets his body slump back against the trunk of a tree. Holland tilts his head back and heaves a long, tired sigh. Something always tugs at his core, at his existence whenever he visits. It settles along his skin like a soft blanket and sinks into his bones to weigh him down. Sometimes he doesn’t fight it; sometimes he slips into an all too easy slumber and dozes among the trees, lulled by the soft gurgling water and birdsong. They are such gentle, peaceful sounds that had almost been forgotten. So much so that they seem foreign to him now.

At one time he almost remembers what White London was – had been before. The place had always been cutthroat with sharp edges and wicked and hungry people prowling its streets. But once before it had had beautiful blue skies, and the winter snow didn’t seem to give the world a sickly pallor. _Before_. Before the Danes; before Makt had been abandoned on all sides.  


So suddenly that spark of life had guttered. A brilliant flame doused and starved; it was smothered until it struggled to breathe, to ignite itself again. The peaceful songs warped into something deadly and powerful. The people of White London became monsters, hunting for every drop of power, of magic – or they fell prey to those desperate and cruel enough to take it. No one was safe, not even during hours of daylight and especially not once night fell. 

He felt that wound threaten to open now, the envy and hatred for Red London’s prosper. How it had trapped and abandoned his London in the wake of Black London’s collapse. For a moment it was impossible for Holland to breathe, his eyes flew open, one hand clutching at front of his white shirt. Beneath it his heart beat a furious rhythm. _I am alive, _he thought to himself. _I am alive, and so is Makt. _Holland breathes deeply, the air crisp and fresh; it smells of moss, of rain, and other sweet and earthy things.__  
  


It was a bittersweet thing, to be alive. He knew he should be grateful, perhaps lucky. But Holland feels instead a vast and sometimes suffocating emptiness that threatens to devour him. The absence of magic – a familiar and powerful element that had at one time been essential to his survival – leaves him with a weak and unfamiliar body. Every task seems more exhausting with each day that passes. Even before Holland ever knew anything about being Antari he had never truly had any need of magic. Now…it’s absence wounds him in ways he hadn’t thought possible.  


He eyes the cane resting next to him and silently curses it – curses his body – curses himself. It felt unfair. Holland hates that he can only summarize it in such a way. But his mind uselessly clings to that thought alone. How _unfair_ it is for him to be stuck, living in a body without magic. _Powerless. Useless._

The familiar voice of Ros Vortalis comes alive in his head._ You really are a hopeless romantic, Holland. If you don’t like it then do something about it. Only fools sit around, waiting and hoping. _

He must have closed his eyes, maybe even dozed off. Because he opens them at the sound of Vortalis’ voice, only to find the forest around him quiet. Empty. But it wasn’t silent. The birds all still sing distantly, the water still moves over the smooth stones, leaves rustle with a playful breeze, and a voice carries a phrase he hadn’t heard in over a month: _the king is coming. _

No…Not quite. Something is different. The Silver Wood speaks a different string of words, and as Holland’s brows knit together as he tries to focus on the words. As he listens more closely, he understands. All around him the wood hums with magic. The words flit between the trees, tousling soil and leaf with a message that surprises him.

_The king is here. The king is here. The king is here._

Holland’s chest feels tight. He rises to his feet, bracing a palm against his favored tree by the Sijlt. Dull green eyes search the wood around him but come up empty. There was no one else there. The forest continues its fevered claim, seeming almost manic. And just as Holland thinks he must be imagining such things, a sudden wind tears through the branches of the forest. He braces himself against the tree, shielding his face from small pieces of debris and clutches his cane. And then it’s done. Over and leaving everything to settle into an eerie calm. Holland pulls a leaf and small bits of wood from silver-white strands. His lips tilt into a too easy frown.  
  


Something has changed.

Daylight creeps slowly between the trees, chasing the remaining shadows. And while White London isn’t nearly as threatening as it had once been, change is a slow and steady thing. Danger still exists, and Holland is more vulnerable now than he has ever been before. With a final sweep of his gaze, he parts from his sacred wood and starts the way he came.

On the outskirts of the place, atop a decent hill to overlook his London, Holland took residence in a simple stone cottage. He has no real tether to the place aside from the peace it brings him and its location. The inside reveals only the barest furnishings; it provides necessities and isn’t decorated, barely hinting at housing anyone or thing at all. The walls are plain, the floor made of old but sturdy wood. There are no mirrors, three windows, and only one door leading in or out. It isn’t home and never would be.

But it is close to the Silver Wood and overlooks the most familiar parts of his London, and that is good enough.

* * *

Holland sits in his favorite chair. There is nothing special about it, and it certainly isn’t comfortable. But his feet always seem to carry him to it. It is an act that became routine – reflexive – where he would discard his coat over the back (and perhaps a scarf or weathered pair of gloves in the colder seasons). The wood is smooth with only a few nicks or grooves to give it character and age.

Here in it, he can look out one of the windows and watch the sky bleed into different colors. He savors the solitude and is grateful at least, to have the perfect view. To watch as magic returns to his London. As the land and its people _breathed_.

Life is returning.

Sometimes he wonders if he were still enough, that he might be able to feel the earth beneath his feet shudder and sigh. He is happy of course, but joy did not come without envy. And Holland finds his anger, his greed, his jealousy to be a constant thorn in his thumb; it is a reluctant ember, still smoldering in the caverns of his chest where his heart should be – and remains– beating. While everything around him felt _alive_, Holland was left feeling…

_Hollowed_.

He made the sacrifice of his own volition. He had been willing to part with his magic, with his life. But something remarkable and tragic had happened. _Holland had survived._

And that was where it felt vitally wrong. Unfair. Cruel. It feels like a mockery; like magic is laughing at him. It makes every muscle in his body tense, and his fingers curl around the arms of his chair. He clenches his jaw, breathing now made uneven as the too familiar and unwelcome voice of Athos Dane haunts him like the easy drafts beneath an old door.

_No one suffers as beautifully as you._

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap! Do you know what's happen(ed)ing? This piece has been tinkered with for a long while, and I already have parts of chapter 2 figured out (as well as pieces scattered all throughout the events of this story). I'm hoping this will inspire me to write more, to finally finish a long-standing work.
> 
> So please let me know whether or not you enjoyed it! 
> 
> ** Also note that the tags and pairings may be clicked/listed but will not be introduced until...well, they're necessary or shown in the works! So they are clicked, but alas, have yet to be written for.


End file.
